


Oh Murky Barovia

by WastedMoth



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastedMoth/pseuds/WastedMoth
Summary: The mists of Barovia trap unwary outsiders inside Strahd von Zarovich's domain. For hundreds of years, gloom has ruled these lands. But now, six unlikely heroes have become intertwined in what may be the last, best opportunity to break the curse of Strahd. But all is not what it seems, and heroes do not belong in Barovia. Will fate be enough to save them?
Kudos: 2





	Oh Murky Barovia

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based loosely on the ongoing dungeons and dragons campaign of Twitch streamer Kirbynite and his friends and is set in the Dungeons and Dragons, Fifth Edition Curse of Strahd campaign module. All protagonist characters belong to their respective players in the campaign from which they originate.

A forlorn sigh of wind ruffled through the wretched trees, mindlessly sweeping the cold mists along with it. But regardless of the exertion on their foliage, the trees remain deathly still, cowed into silence by whatever may be watching. Indeed, not an insect, not a bird, no creature of the night dared to disturb the domineering stillness. The sky was choked with an unbroken veil of storm clouds, which hadn’t yet delivered their boon upon the earth below, serving only to stifle the pale moonlight. 

For many hours, the uncompromising atmosphere of Barovia remained undisturbed. But gradually, a distant howling stirred the nighttime air. Soon, it was joined by another, then another, then two more sets of baying. These wolves, whatever their whereabouts, seemed content to keep their distance, however, before they gradually trailed off back into silence.

This was fortunate, for the baying made Tefaruk nervous, and Timothy knew from experience that the quickest way to sour a glorious night of potential was for a Minatour to become nervous. 

With an irritable grunt, Tefaruk ceased his trotting beside Missy and turned to face the direction of the baying. He shook his head slowly from side to side, displaying his more bestial nature as he began reaching for his battleaxe.

“Uh, uh- no, Tef.” Timothy stopped Missy, his Standardbred horse, and reached out to grab the tip of Tefaruk’s right horn. “Tef, it’s fine. Those direwolves are leaving, we’re safe.”

Tefaruk shook his horn out of reach, irritated but unwilling to be left behind or mocked for being uptight. He turned to face the path again, clearly unnerved and unhappy that his concerns seemingly were not being taken seriously.

Timothy sat atop the saddle on Missy, the group’s gear slumped across the horse’s back and giving off a slight clunking as the pots and pans bumped together. Timothy was not the only passenger atop Missy. Perched snugly inside a basket that was slung over Missy’s side was a kobold with a dead right eye, a broken horn and, most strikingly, a pair of papery wings. Sitting behind him, her arms wrapped around Timothy’s waist to steady herself, a light-skinned elf maiden with pale blonde hair gazed dolefully into the dark clouds above.

“It’s about to rain,” the elf mused, as if she were resigning herself to some misfortune.

Realizing that the weather was, indeed, becoming overcast once more, Timothy removed his cream colored cloak and handed it backwards to the kobold, who draped it over the reserved elf.

“Should only be another hour or two before we reach Barovia,” Timothy explained as the group continued onward. He hoped he could keep his concern out of his voice. The last thing he wanted was for the others to start panicking after he told Tefaruk to remain calm.

A quarter of an hour had passed before the promised rain began drizzling from the gloomy abyss above. Though the resilient Tefaruk was entirely unaffected and continued trotting beside Missy, the kobold closed herself into the basket. Similarly, Timothy could feel the elf maiden begin to shiver slightly in spite of the extra cloak she’d been given. 

Suddenly, Tefaruk turned toward the treeline again, and this time, he fully drew his battleaxe and gave a low, guttural grunt. 

Timothy turned to see what had so thoroughly disturbed his minotaur companion to see what appeared to be four dark figures, half-hidden in the trees and aiming what were clearly crossbows in their direction.

“Hold there!” Timothy called out, stopping Missy. His kobold friend hissed loudly from within her basket and the elf maiden clutched his chest more tightly. “We see you there, now come out and make your intentions known.”

“Just move along, sir,” came the reply. A fifth figure, without a crossbow in his hands, sauntered into view. “Move along or prepare to defend yourself. Vistani are not welcome, even in these woods.”

“We- we are not Vistani,” the elf maiden told the man, holding back a cough.

“Indeed. My name is Timothy Hadfield, and these are my companions. The bovine one is Tefaruk.”

The minotaur hoofed the ground threateningly, his eyes fixed on the strangers.

“We also have Voks here in the basket,” he continued indicating the kobold. “And this lovely maiden is Miavyre. We are a traveling group of performers.”

Somehow, this seemed to put the man at ease as Timothy could make out a grin spreading across his face.

“Ah, you are not from Barovia, then.” He exited the treeline, ignoring the disquiet this caused his own companions. “Entered those iron gates like I did, eh?”

“Should we not have?”

“Ahh, my foolish friends,” he told them, shaking his head mournfully but maintaining his smug grin, “we are never going to leave these lands again. The mists prevent anyone but the Vistani from leaving. The best we can do is to make homes for ourselves among the people here, as I have.”

“Then why are you out here in the woods?” Miavyre asked him before giving a soft cough.

No longer smirking, the man’s gaze turned to the damp ground for a moment before answering.

“We are searching for my young brother Cassio. He has gone missing in these woods after the burgomeister of Barovia sent him on a mission.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Blyat.”

Dull pain shot through the blood stained chest of the half-elf ranger as the horse-drawn, barrel-topped vardo came to a sudden, jerking halt. The light pattering of the fresh rain convinced him to take yet another swig of his leather-bound flask. The spicy, briny vodka warmed his gut and numbed the pain, ever so slightly.

The half-elf coughed on his vodka as a man in a yellow turban and a bright yellow shirt reached into the wagon to help him out. Fresh pain shot through the ranger’s abdomen as pressure was forced onto the shards of wood that had been lodged through his leather breastplate. The man was quickly joined by his wife, who wore a bright red headscarf of her own and a flowing, red dress with knee-length skirt and wrist-length sleeves. 

A small encampment of five colorful, round tents and canopies were situated beside a running river several hundred feet across. Four vardos, including the one the ranger was brought in on, sat around a roaring fire. The mournful tones of an accordian suddenly ceased as five brightly-colored figures noticed who their comrades brought home with them.

“Set him down there,” one of the figures, a tall, wiry man with a pointy nose, a black goatee and large hoop earrings, told the man and the woman who had brought the ranger to them. He produced what appeared to be a mason jar with an oily, golden liquid inside it.

When the wiry man coaxed a sample of the strange oily liquid down his throat, the half-elf ranger suddenly began to feel the pain in his chest quickly ebb away. As this strange rejuvenation swept over him, the ranger became aware that the man in the yellow turban was forcing open his leather armor. Nearby, a three foot tall woman with a bright purple headscarf and dress was preparing what appeared to be a large pair of silver forceps.

After what seemed to be a blurry hour later, the ranger had been healed of his wounds, had been given a new, bright green garment to wear, and began explaining to his rescuers, who were more numerous than he’d originally seen, how he had come to be injured.

“A witch named Rosita Grimsbane,” the half-elf explained in his heavily accented voice, “has been rallying the druids in the Svalich Woods. I heard about her from the Mountain Folk, but they didn’t know about the druids.” He took a swig of wine, which had been offered to him by the flamboyant throng when his vodka ran out.

“Did you learn her plans?” asked the diminutive woman with the forceps.

“Nyet. But I don’t really care. I have a score to settle with her now.”

At this, the wiry man shifted uncomfortably. “That would be foolish, friend. I have heard of this Rosita Grisbane, and she is in league with the devil Strahd. And if she is truly allying with the druids…”

His voice trailed away at the sound of clanking footsteps, which drew the attention of all present. Someone had emerged from one of the wagons and was headed toward the ranger with a purpose. The man wore what appeared to be a steel barbute helmet, matching steel gauntlets and sabatons, each of which was complemented with chainmail chausses, a leather belt and a dark brown cloak. A steel pauldron rested over his right shoulder, outside of his cloak.

“The druids worship the devil Strahd,” he told him in a deep but quiet voice, which was slightly muffled by his helmet. “He controls the weather and the beasts. They are all the devil Strahd’s minions, and you won’t be able to defeat them on your own.”

“Blyat.” The ranger took another swig of wine. 

But the man was not done speaking yet. 

“Madame Eva has foretold your arrival here. She will want to speak with us.”

“Hiroshi,” the wiry man shot up from his seat, his eyes wide. “Does this mean-”

“If she wants you to know, she will tell you herself.” 

The man, Hiroshi, turned to the ranger and beckoned toward a much larger tent that had been erected near the shoreline, its sagging form lit from within. Near the tent, eight unbridled horses stood drinking from the river. 

“That way.”

As they trod away from the others around the fire, the ranger became aware that someone was shouting profanities within the tent. Hiroshi stepped aside, allowing the ranger to enter first before following. Magic flames cast a reddish glow over the interior of this tent, revealing a low table covered in a black velvet cloth. Glints of light seemed to flash from a crystal ball on the table as a hunched figure peered into its depths. 

"At last you have arrived!" the figure cackled, her voice crackling like withered weeds. 

She appeared to be in her seventies, her wispy white hair fell haphazardly around her wrinkled, thin face, and some of her teeth were missing from her smirking mouth. Unlike her compatriots, she wore a simple sackcloth tunic underneath a hand knitted dark grey blouse and a dirty, ripped skirt that barely hid her worn shoes.

“Illothin Arasys,” the old woman wheezed as she stood laboredly from her wicker chair. “A ranger from outside our dreary home here in Barovia. You’ve spent much time amongst the Mountain Folk, they have sharpened your… expertise to a razor’s edge.”

Laughing at her own pun, Madame Eva hobbled to her right and toward Hiroshi, grasping his hand in hers and nodding slightly as she gazed into his visor, her imperfect smile still etched eagerly onto her weathered face.

“The time has indeed come, Hiroshi. This is the one who will complete your little group.”

“He was almost killed out there,” Hiroshi reminded her, his even voice dense with disbelief that he had hidden up until this point.

But Madame Eva was unperturbed. “Alone, yes, he was. But we have discussed your reading before, my friend.”

“Excuse me, but I am confused,” Illothin blurted out. “Who are you, and why exactly do you think I am here?”

Madame Eva released Hiroshi’s hand and turned once again to Illothin, letting out another grating cackle. “Ah-ha-ha, of course! I do sometimes forget the proper flow of time, Madame Eva tends to forget herself.”

“-FUCKING HAG!” 

A manic voice bellowed from a nearby wrot iron cage that was mostly obscured by the dim lighting of the tent. With a loud clang, what appeared to be a tiny bearded man in light blue shirt, dark blue pants and a pointed red hat threw himself against the side, and with a sudden jolt, Illothin almost thought the man, or gnome, as he knew he was, would knock the cage over.

“TWINKIE WILL EAT YOU!”

“Silence him,” Madame Eva waved listlessly at Hiroshi, unperturbed by the display.

Without a second’s hesitation, Hiroshi produced a tiny shoe from his pocket and held it up to the light. The air suddenly grew thick, a slight change in the breeze outside brought cold air into the tent through the open spaces in the seems, and Illothin’s ears began ringing slightly. Hiroshi muttered something guttural under his breath, and then, oddly, blew in the direction of the cage.

“-MOTHERFUCKERS, TWINKIE-”

Suddenly, he was cut off and began making a gagging sound before he attempted to continue his muffled yelling. Failing that, the gnome threw himself again into the side of the cage, nearly toppling it once again, but again failing, as if some spell held the cage in place. In that brief moment when the gnome hit the side of the cage, Illothin realized to his horror that the gnome’s mouth had been stitched shut with thick black cords, blood dripping down his lower lip.

“Where were we?” Madame Eva pondered for a brief moment. “Ah, yes. You have obviously noticed the mists surrounding the borders of Barovia, the mists that creep throughout the land even now?”

“Of course,” Illothin replied as he suddenly became much more aware of the cool breeze outside and the sound of the light spray at the roof of the tent.

Having noticed his unease, Madame Eva’s grin widened a bit. 

“The mists are but one sign,” she told him as she began to pace slowly around her table, “that these lands are cursed. Many centuries ago, Strahd von Zarovich conquered these lands in a crusade. He took a fancy to this place, named it after his father, King Barov, and built his castle, Ravenloft. Today, Strahd endures as an undead, rising each night to feast on blood. When his curse befell him, Strahd damned Barovia as well. As you have seen, the denizens of forests- the wolves, the druids, the blights, the witches- they are twisted. Strahd’s servants are everywhere, even in Vistani caravans.”

Hiroshi turned slightly to face Illothin, and his silence struck harder than any words of confirmation ever could. 

But Madame Eva laughed again, scraping a long, thin fingernail across one of the cage’s bars, just out of reach of Twinkie the gnome, who lept at her, but failed to reach her with his gnomish arms.

“You needn’t worry yourself, Illothin Arasys,” she told him as she turned to face him again. “My people answer lord Strahd when he calls, but your fate, and that of Hiroshi, and this-” she waved her hand dismissively at the caged gnome, “-is yet to unfold. It is my wish to see Barovia freed of its curse. For here, in these misty lands, the souls of the dead do not move on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. The souls of Barovians are ancient, because they do not pass on. Many do not have souls at all, but those who do are reincarnated from those of ancient Barovia, and they are heavy. I have foreseen that you three will have a part to play in this.”

“How?” It was Hiroshi who asked, not Illothin. “You have never told me.”

This brought another mischievous grin to Madame Eva’s twisted face as she returned to her wicker chair. She reached into a sack beside her and produced a deck of decorative, blue and silver cards, picking one from the top and teasingly showing them the back of it.

“Perhaps Madame Eva can tell you your fortune to help you on your quest.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Searing pain drilled out from behind Ginepro Wingar’s right eye, immediately waking him from his restless sleep. He pressed his palm against his eyelid, clawing at his temple as he did so. But it didn’t help, nor did tossing and turning from one side to the other. For an entire minute that seemed closer to a quarter of an hour, Ginepro remained trapped in his bed, powerless against the unplaceable pain. 

Boiling bile suddenly welled up in Ginepro’s gut, and he forced himself out of bed with a mighty heave and flew open the window. Though choking out his vomit did provide some unexpected relief, the dim lantern lights of the street and the smallest sounds of the Barovian streets only agitated his headache.

A distant roll of thunder accompanied the sprinkling rain, forewarning the steady approach of a heavier storm. Ginepro vomited his last, allowed the cool rain to soothe his scalp, even a little, then pulled himself back into the window, which he closed and latched. 

Clunk!

Ginepro winced in pain as he stepped on his breastplate, which had fallen off its perch on the table beside his bed. Blood from a cut on his foot flecked the steel.

Sitting back down on his bed, Ginepro made sure not to bleed on the bedsheets, as he was certain the Vistani tavern owners wouldn’t appreciate it. He propped his foot over the opposite knee, lay the palm of his hand on the cut, closed his eyes and tried to focus. With unexpected difficulty, he managed to reach into the warm calmness he had grown familiar with and allowed it to rush over him. As he opened his eyes, his cut was healed, and his head no longer ached.

But something was missing now. Something important.

Was it his dream?

But what was it about?


End file.
